Fleeing then seeking an attack of normalcy I wander through the isles of $1 Stores wishing I’d have walked naked barefoot and penniless instead of fully clothed in my car with too many credit cards and so--so, many temptations I really don’t need. No way. No how.
She weeping lubricity, all feasible and fecund, smiled as I confessed my errancy.
Oh sweet Jesus my deliverer redeem me now. No rupture; rapture. Render/Rendition/Dissipater me mist evaporating in lust. Still capable but vastly distant those halcyon days of endless erections. I could bar graph what was who winning the contest to penetrate her then there ravishing her completely bewildered she looked nothing like anything but or anyone other than herself.
IN GLASSES NO LESS!
Can men be hydras? Maybe Octopuses! Perhaps squids walking? Blind groping her uterus via eyes, ears, anus, vagina all portals explored counting the seeds I could inseminate filling with the last vestiges of semen left to me so near the cancellation date dad’s last known erection at seventy two.
Could it be that inserting my penis in a food processor--i’m not really that long--but big, or so I’ve been told by a woman who’s name I cannot not now remember. Black as midnight in Chi Town who said; “Oh . . o-o-o. O Yeah . . . Honey I might just be able to deep throat you; she grouping me public on a nearby public beach park bench fully clothed early fall crisp day.
Death alone will slake my lust and be done forever? The Author of All Things is astonishing and mom never knew until I buried her i belonged to God.
Yet this one, childless, married, actually forty something, available? What? Was it that so attracted me to her smile, winking scintillating eyes and gentle kindness so ravishing to me. In rumpled denim and sneakers; no rape me stiletto heels. This was no fetish doll, blown up for a party or otherwise and i so terrified of women being the only male for a time and mommy said dad wanted her to be The Virgin Mary and a Whore both at one time?!
Vestal tongue anteater long and wanna be Rhinoceros horn the $1 dollar store that one would be plastered against the ceiling screaming with ecstasy she’s a Stradivarius never played before sonorous cello mellow cumin brown not fully baked or broken but taken to heaven and never returned . . . reflecting, musing, bewildered I think she did that to me just standing there in the isle for three hours me preaching creation to her.
Mistake, colossal, fall asleep pondering why St. Francis died alone in a cave? Was is St. Claire, the honey bunny never merged physically or all the vanity of those Brothers seeing who was looking most poor?
?Instant replay the Main Frame in Heaven? Did I ask for this or is it intended? OMG Chuck! She’s a carpenter too, no tutu. And me terrified of women knowing myself a girly boy meaning merely I’d rather make love with one real woman I could trust finally before it falls forever limp.
121101 11:26 she of weeping lubricity
I have changed in an exquisite blooming of a flower, never seen before, rooted in the mire and muck of my life, so oft denied until now. Atypical of me not to post upon completion. Yet knowing now, more so, from time marching forward; the only thing best about me is the self within.Not what I write. Nor my desire that another like myself will be saved. It is not the prophets of God who save us but God period. I have a sense of The Presence in all things and can no longer deny that I lust for a companion and am rude and salacious about it. Reality and prior experience indicates the anima--feminine aspect of my soul equal to animus = male; is what I long for. And it is she who waits patiently while I go through convulsions of lust occasionally . . . . Projecting Her upon the being of another Woman. More typical of now I wander away attending to food preparation, cleaning house in an attempt to make myself beautiful for Annie and She who lives within me . . . Who betimes dreamed of The Mother of God seen twice in visions, visitations, oracular; wordless, face hidden in a shadowed cowl. I am comfortable with endings and last things knowing it is well being right here and now.
Truth be told there is a neighbor who informs me better what she would or will do given the tears she shed preceding my encounter with the young woman I idealized--for a time--slaking my imaginary lust denied to be for more women than just one an embrace chaste. Yes. I did preach but significantly it was a day woven thread by thread into a tapestry I’ll not soon forget. Laughing. I then saw the maiden stretched taught upon a rack during the Inquisition; as emblematic of my writing this time. The only poetic real communion is with God; all else is collecting material as grist for the endlessly spinning miller’s stone in my mind’s envisioning.
To acknowledge all of yourself is to be able to choose appropriate behavior in the reality of life. Not by laws but autonomy. Wisdom must be earned not bought.
121102 00:09 final/final
©2012 by Jack Spratt - All Rights Reserved
